In the Fall of 2014, students in the course Classical, Medieval and Renaissance Studies 110, at the University of Saskatchewan, were asked to compose a first-person account from the standpoint of one of the characters in Homer’s Iliad, or a character of their own invention, with a view to eliciting further insights into Homer’s poem or developing alternate perspectives into the world of the Iliad— its characters, values, social structures, or what-have-you. The model for this exercise was Julian Barnes’ revisionist account of Noah and the Flood in A History of the World in 10½ Chapters, but the authors were given free rein to adopt any approach they might chose. This collection of eight pieces offers a sample of the results.

Our authors draw inspiration, directly or indirectly, from a variety of sources and present an interesting register of tones: from the comic exasperation of James Wood’s Hades (Disney’s Heracles) and the existentialist bureaucratic hell of Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, to the more somber figures of Vergil’s Fama (Rumor) and the obsessive prospector of Service’s “The Cremation of Sam McGee.” We view the heroes’ quest for glory through the eyes of a carrion-raven (who sings of the heroes’ achievements while dining on their fallen foes) and the narcissistic Paris, but also in the utterly humane viewpoint of the fallen Patroclus. At the same time, we are led to reflect on the later reception of Homer’s poem in the tormented uncertainty of the war-prize Briseis, who recalls the characters of that name in Homer’s Iliad and Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy while at the same time highlighting the generic and cultural constraints under which those characters labor.

The goal of the assignment was to encourage a fresh examination of Homer’s poem, to provide students with a space in which they might explore more fully, and through a different lens, both the issues that Homer addresses and those that he either suppresses or ignores. These pieces achieve that goal in a wonderful fashion, both in their overall conception and in the many, often exquisitely subtle touches that you will find scattered throughout each.

Sacha Goldberger is a photographer who relies on fine details to create an image. One of his recent exhibits in Paris, entitled “Super Flamands,” blends our expectations of Renaissance costuming with our knowledge of characters in popular culture: its all in the details.

The names of the portraits have been chosen to reflect how a superhero’s portrait might have been named during the Renaissance. See if you can guess to which superhero these names belong:

« Portrait of a masked man with a spider embroidered on his chest. »

« Pale young woman surrounded by animals. »

« Portrait of an officer in a black helmet. »

« Portait of a man wearing a gold armor. »

« Portrait of a very hairy man. »

« Portrait of a man wearing a S on his chest »

If you guessed Spiderman, Snow White, Darth Vader, C3P0, Chewbacca, and Superman, you were correct!

Check out Sacha Goldberger’s Facebook page to see the full collection. Here are some of the pictures from the collection:

The popularity of Game of Thrones – both the novels themselves as well as the HBO television series – is hard to deny. Millions of people watch the show, and some of them even heard about the books first.

One of the remarkable things about Game of Thrones is that, despite its supernatural elements, certain parts of the setting hearken to the popular conception of a medieval period: familial and monarchal rule, alliances based on marriage (and alliances broken just as easily), as well as other details related to technology and dress which indicate to an average audience that this series seems very similar to what they conceptualize as the history of western civilization.

Ugh, that should be “memes.”

I know I’ve already upset every Medieval scholar within range, so I’ll hasten to add that obviously there are huge problems with comparing an obviously fictional and fantastical series to real life. There are enough historical inaccuracies in the popular conception without tossing in the additional complications of fantasy.

The same could be said of Tolkien; an entire breed of fantasy novels has been and continues to be inspired by Tolkien, re-using the characteristics of a “sword and sorcery” genre, containing elements that never have never actually existed: knights did not exist in reality as they do in the common imagination; castles, kingdoms, and structures of government were far less epic and / or romantic; even very simple concepts of social and class mobility, gender equity, and the role of justice, which are such ingrained ideas in a modern audience, are complete anachronisms for the medieval time period. Tolkien and his successors in the genre have contributed enormously to the misconceptions rampant in the common imagination.

So Game of Thrones is bad, right?

Insofar as any fictional text – even historically based – is never going to be completely accurate, even taking massive liberties with the time period in order to a) tell a story and b) conform to the misinformation that already exists in the mind of the audience, we should not, of course, be using Game of Thrones as a textbook.

However, can we use Game of Thrones in our teaching to introduce students to true and accurate concepts in medieval study?

I’m thinking specifically in regards to death. Death happens so frequently in Game of Thrones as to have become an internet meme.

When asked about it, George R.R. Martin refers to the frequency of death in his writing as necessary for the character construction, “when my characters are in danger, I want you to be afraid to turn the page, (so) you need to show right from the beginning that you’re playing for keeps.” Death becomes his greatest tool in creating character, but it’s also his greatest tool in differentiating himself from other authors who are set their stories in a similar time period: he say that Tolkien and his ilk write “Disneyland Middle Ages,” a jibe the correctly identifies Tolkien’s fantasy as being unrealistically PG rated. (See, Martin agrees with all you medieval scholars, too!). Martin says, “we look at real history and it’s not that simple … Just having good intentions doesn’t make you a wise king.”

So what can learn about death in Martin’s text that we can apply to Medieval studies?

Paradoxically, death in the medieval period is a way of life.

We might ask our students, how does death in Martin’s text change how we think of death in literature?

We might then go on to say, how does death in the medieval period inform the way people live their lives? How does the prevalence of death and destruction govern the rules of society?

When death is a major concern, how does that change how governing officials are chosen? How relationships are made? How families are constructed? Even further, how property is divided and how land titles are created?

In effect, Martin teaches the new scholar of Medieval study that Death changes everything. They don’t have to believe what Martin says about dress, technology, or even social arrangements (in fact, they should use what they learn to question Martin’s descriptions). But Game of Thrones gives new students a way into the conversation, and it gives burgeoning academics in the field a way to test their knowledge: it may not be Shakespeare, but the pedagogical potential of Game of Thrones has interesting implications for CMRS studies, and I would argue, humanities study as a whole.

-Elyn Achtymichuk

Works Cited

Martin, George R.R. A Song of Ice and Fire (series). New York: Bantam, 2013. Print.

As a social network, we seem to be consuming more and more information in short, easily digestible chunks. These chunks are often in the form of top ten lists.

If you’re like me, your social media feed is full of top ten lists (or rather, ten is seemingly the traditional number: any number will do now, so long as you have arranged your content in list form).

It seems that, at least for now, we must put up with social media placing large swaths of information into manageable chunks as top-ten lists. Certainly, the headlines are punchier – if clichéd – and the content seems to be getting people’s attention.

However, what does this mean for otherwise interesting information that needs further explanation? In Classical, Medieval, and Renaissance Studies, we often excitedly brood over issues of translation, the errors of long-dead scribes, and the careful maintenance of ancient texts. We are gleeful about studying literature and artifact in combination.

But that glee is often hard to translate into those manageable texts that so excite the average reader; this reader only has time for a pithy headline and a hook.

Are they attracted to posts about the “Top 7 clerical errors of the 15th century”?

Do they want to read about the “Top 33 pieces of marginalia in a medieval manuscript”?

Is the list labelled “Top Five Bronze Busts” good enough clickbait? (And is it clickbait because of the mistaken interpretation of the word “bust”?)

This might lead us to a more important question: Do we care? As scholars who have discovered our own interests in these fields, why should we be concerned with how to make the average reader of Top-Ten lists and clickbait equally interested in what we study?

There are a few potential answers:

We should care about the longevity of the field. If we can use a headline to attract a few people to read the list, shouldn’t that create enough interest for a particularly intrigued party to potentially engage further?

We should care about how people are managing and consuming information. Even if we would rather read and write long and complex explanations, it is the case the communication evolves naturally, at least for most average people. If we deem our history to be necessary, it is imperative that they understand it, at least in its most basic form. Maybe it’s a creative challenge to create these top ten lists.

We should care about new students in the field. These are people who must navigate the traditions and emphasis of their teachers as well as the instant-gratification needs of their peers. They must inhabit both worlds simultaneously; how do they engage their peers without offending the sensibilities of their superiors?

We should remain relevant without becoming superfluously trendy. Is there a need for a CMRS Snapchat account? Unlikely. But is it possible to have an engaging conversation between a scholar and the average Twitter-user? Probably. The question is, where do the concerns of these two individuals intersect and create meaningful mutual interests? The mutual concerns of most people are in human nature, in relationships, and in arts and entertainment. There is certainly intersectionality in those areas, so why not focus on these points of comparison to create a meaningful discourse?

Maybe Top-Ten lists aren’t the future of CMRS social communication, but these lists certainly give us pause to consider the future of our communication strategies, where we should devote our time in social media, and what most people find interesting in a variety of subjects within the humanities.